


What's Behind and What's Before

by yet_intrepid



Series: Hurt/Comfort December [14]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen, Politics, Pre-Series, Protests, Scared Sam, Stanford Era
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-28
Updated: 2014-12-28
Packaged: 2018-03-03 22:44:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 739
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2890721
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yet_intrepid/pseuds/yet_intrepid
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“You’re kidding,” Sam said, when Brady first brought up going. “An anti-war protest?” But Brady wasn’t kidding.</p>
            </blockquote>





	What's Behind and What's Before

**Author's Note:**

> prompt fourteen: imprisonment. (or arrest, at least.)
> 
> alas, a lot of thought went into Sam's political stance here, and none of it actually showed up in the fic. maybe I'll have to write another one for that.

There’s shouting all around. Sam’s heart is beating fast and he scans the crowd, looking for Brady. He’s not nearby, but that’s all right. One captured is better than both.

(“You’re kidding,” Sam said when Brady first brought up going. “An anti-war protest?” But Brady wasn’t kidding.)

The zip tie pulls tight and the police, in front of him and behind, are pushing. He spins around, looks around again. They were gonna stick together, him and Brady; they were gonna play it safe. This wasn’t supposed to happen.

(“Oh, come on,” Brady told him. “I see you trying to keep your nose out of politics. You know what I don’t see? You succeeding. Dude, you’re keeping up with that shit about the uranium and the aluminum tubes. You’re as suspicious as I am, and twice as pissed.”)

(“I don’t know if I’m pissed enough to get arrested over it,” Sam confessed.)

And yet here he is. Arrested. Great job, Sam, he thinks. Way to ruin your new life. Thought you were going to stay clean, stay out of trouble. Fly under the radar. Now they’ll pull up your juvenile record and find out everything.

He grits his teeth. If they take him in for blocking traffic, he should be fingerprinted and cleared to go. But maybe there’s something else. Who knows, maybe they know about the fake IDs. Maybe they’ve figured out he’s the one who shoplifted that ammo in Minnesota in ninth grade. Which isn’t rational, and he knows it, but he’s getting shoved into the back of a police car and that’s bad, bad memories. Memories that are supposed to be far away.

(Brady shrugged it off. “What are the chances? Besides, it can’t be that bad.”)

There are two other people in the back of the police car. Sam shrinks away from them, huddles into himself. He could get out of the zip ties, but that would just land him in more trouble. They already confiscated his folding knife. Are they going to suspect him for carrying it? He can’t remember. Can’t think. Everything’s instinct now. The careful breathing. The eyes down a little and straight ahead. The silence. The still, waiting tension in his shoulders.

The police station isn’t far off. It’s busy, though, which dashes Sam’s hopes of a twenty-minute fingerprinting. They get a holding cell instead, big and crowded. Nobody takes off the zip ties.

Sam starts assessing before he remembers that trying to break out is the last thing he wants to do now. But the plastic is cutting into his skin, leaving his hands a little numb, so he figures he might as well go through the exits, the potential threats in the holding cell, that sort of thing. Makes it easier not to think of the fact that he’ll have to get out of this all by himself. Legally.

He carves out a spot for himself against the wall and resists the urge to hug his knees. Dean taught him that: the more space you take up, the less scared you look. And the last thing you want to do in jail is look scared.

But Sam is scared. He’s scared for two whole hours of waiting with his hands pressed together, leaning one shoulder against the wall. He’s scared when they call his name. Scared when they run his prints, when they ask for his address and he barely remembers in time which one to list. But he pulls it off—confident, respectful, undisturbed. Says yes sir, no sir. Waits patiently for the zip ties to come off, for them to hand his stuff back, for the check to come back clear. Misdemeanor. Promise to appear. No charges.

And he gets the hell out. Calls Brady, his hands shaking as he dials.

“Where’d you go?” Brady asks. “I’ve been looking all over for you.”

“I got arrested,” says Sam. The confidence has all drained out.

“Cool,” says Brady. “Where are you? I’ll meet you for the ride back.”

“By the station,” Sam says, “but I’m sure as hell not staying around.”

Brady gives him the name of a station and Sam gets on at the nearest one. He pulls his sleeves down over his wrists as he pays for his pass, but he feels like people are staring anyway. Like jail has a smell. A mark.

Like no matter how much he protests war, it’ll always live inside him.


End file.
